No Traditions, Only You
by bettercrazythanboring
Summary: DC Marriage Week Day 4: Wedding (Night). This is technically wedding day, but has what you'd usually expect from a wedding night, so I suppose the way I could most accurately sum it up is plain and simple - Chalant smut. Bordering on PWP. You have been warned.


"I thought I wasn't supposed to see the bride before the wedding," he says, mouth flush against her neck.

His hands are on her thighs, bare except for the lacy garter. (How can one stupid string of fabric be _so_ fucking arousing? He's never gotten men's obsession with lingerie before, but now she is _totally_ wearing nothing but garters on their honeymoon if he can somehow persuade her to do it.) His fingers press into the soft flesh there and his tongue tastes her lipstick, and it feels like blood… or maybe that's just the inside of his cheek that he bit when she came into his room with rolls in her hair, a silvery robe on her shoulders, and nothing but a corset underneath.

The robe now lies somewhere under her feet. Her small, stiletto-clad, bright-blue nail feet.

"I'm not wearing the dress," she says, fists tugging on his hair and hips leaning into him.

He looks up at her chin, mouth never leaving her chest. "You're not really wearing _anything_."

She chuckles once against his cheek—a sharp, melodic sound that sends vibrations through his very core and fills his fingertips with energy—and her teeth return to searching for anywhere they can mark as hers without ruining the photos to be published all over the world.

Bruce Wayne—you know, the genius playboy billionaire philanthropist with zero parents and, like, four unrelated sons who somehow look a ridiculous amount alike—has a son going off the market today and _guess_ who he's marrying?

The _daughter of Giovanni Zatara_—y'know, the world-famous Italian magician whose illusions, some say, border on _real magic_—who just so happens to be among Gotham's most eligible bachelorettes! And also a major political player for some reason that the public doesn't really understand.

All they know is Dick Grayson and Zatanna Zatara are two very important people and, be it an arranged contract marriage or not, it's kind of the event of the decade. If either of the beaming thirty-somethings were forced to do a headcount, they'd give up a quarter in and just say half the world is attending their wedding.

Which, really, isn't that far from the truth.

_Three thousand_ in-person guests—many of them leaders of numerous countries—and a live feed to be broadcast on many major news network stations around the world. You'd think they were royalty.

Dick and Zatanna enjoy warping this expectation every chance they get, which is why she's currently doing her damnedest to undo his tux pants in a broom closet a mere twenty yards from a group of paparazzi.

"Stop fidgeting," she says, sighing as the zipper just won't bow to her will.

She promised she wouldn't use any magic today, paparazzi and all. If anyone found out their secret identities—she's started wearing a mask since a few months into her work with the League—some sort of hell would surely ensue.

_Dammit._

She groans and lowers to her knees to try and see it better.

"Yeah, that's not gonna make it open any easier," he says, looking down at her as the bulge in his pants hardens.

"Oh, you wish," she says, voice low and amused. "My lipstick is all done, Wonder Boy, and you ain't getting none of it."

"Uh huh," he mutters, taking her by the shoulders and guiding her up again as his mouth returns to her supremely positioned breasts in the corset he dares not take off, "so is mine." He grins against her skin. "You don't see me refusing to make it _yours_."

He runs his lips down her bare, freckled arm and leaves a beige, slightly pink trail after them to prove his point.

"I am not interested in your _make-up_, Grayson," she says, guiding his hand to the zipper; surely _he_ can open it. "I'm interested in your dick."

"My what, Zatanna?" he asks, running his tongue over his teeth. "You kinda left out a word somewhere in the middle of that."

Her eyes narrow.

"Your _schlong_, Dick," she retaliates with a smirk, bold lips wrapping around the word in the most sensual whisper he's ever heard.

Uh…. Did he just find out about a new kink of his?

Who cares, he decides as his fingers elegantly pry open his pants and free his erection from its shackles. She wets a finger—the middle one—on her tongue, those thick, perfect, red lips sucking on it expertly enough to never touch the lipstrick and rendering him unable to look away.

He watches, hypnotized, as Zatanna lowers this finger to massage his head with light, barely touching motions and he nearly comes right then and there.

But it would be a shame to soil her _ridiculously beautiful_ garter that he has every intention of ripping off with her teeth later in the night and so instead he leans down, trailing his tongue over the stitches of the white fabric covering her abdomen, lower and then lower still, until his mouth finds the little patch of hair and sucks down with all his might.

He kisses her pelvis, skin stretched tight over her perfect curves, and lower, to the inside of her thigh, which quivers at his touch. He feels the warmth of her core on his right cheek, and it nearly claws at her as a physical entity. His eyes flutter shut with how much he wants to taste the source of this heat and light that he's reasonably certain could power an entire solar system.

Or maybe that's just his own crotch.

He's not really sure why this little broom closet is so hot, to be honest, or which of them is responsible for it. All he knows is he'll never be cold again ever.

Finally, his tongue gently presses at her opening—not enough to enter Zatanna—and slowly pushes up, right down the middle of her lips. She catches her breath and he feels her fingers in his hair, doing nothing but holding themselves there. He stops at her little nub, which he takes into his mouth and swirls his tongue around while there.

Her knees buckle at that and she leans against the wall—glossy and beautiful, just like the rest of this place—pushing her ankles as apart as she can while maintaining balance on her heels. Pushing his face even deeper into her core and anchoring himself there with hands grasping her the back of her thighs, he takes one of her lips between his and pulls, the combined heat of them driving him nuts.

She lifts her arm to her face when he enters her with his tongue, biting hard on the back of her hand—pictures be _damned_—and tries to keep from screaming in between her pants.

His nose nearly gets a bruise when she bucks her hips into his face at a particularly sharp tug somewhere in her belly, and he decides it's time for a different technique.

Pressing a few last kisses to the soft, reddish flesh he loves to taste, he utilizes whatever strength he has left in his legs—all his muscles _throb_ and he can't even _think straight_ from all the blood in his cock—to getting back up. His hands run over her sides as he does so, pressing a little harder than is strictly necessary, but she throws her head back at the friction, exposing her neck, and spreads her legs even further.

His right hand sneaks back down and runs over her slit, massaging her lips for but a few moments, and then his middle finger hovers over her entrance—touching, but just barely.

Her gaze turns dark as she stares right into him, torn between a scowl and complete surrendering, and her muscles clench at the thought of having him inside her again. But he only keeps his finger there and then, getting a wicked glint in her eye, she trails her fingers over _his_ cock in a manner no less teasing than his.

His eyes twitch when he feels the contact and his teeth grind, and it takes all of his control to not wipe that taunting, perfect red off her mouth with his tongue and teeth, tangling their bodies together until both are pink with increased circulation, secondhand (maybe thirdhand) make-up, and littered with their handprints.

He's _never wanted anything more._

Instead, he snatches away his own hand and brings it to his lips, sucking on the liquid clinging to it for dear life as she watches.

If his hand were still down there, he'd feel her juices overflowing at the sight and running down her thigh in a desperate attempt to escape the heat that has now overtaken her completely. Her vision tremors with every heartbeat, pulse thudding in her ear, and she has no idea how she's standing even remotely upright with all this overcharged numbness in her legs, and all she feels is someone wrapping her nerves in a tight ball.

She puts a hand on his neck and her stupendously manicured nails dig into his skin as she brings him closer, stopping just an inch from her face. Her breath smells like peppermint in his nose and he forgets to blink, lost in the depths of her irises.

Then Zatanna finally breaks their eye contact as she puts his lips to his ear, her gasps the only thing his heartbeat can tune itself to

"_Fuck me_ like you will tonight and for the rest of our lives," she whispers, barely audible, though the vibrations of it send tremors at his ear and rippling through the rest of him.

Dick's vision goes white for a fraction of a second and then his hands are on her hips, digging into the soft flesh above the bone, and his lips are on the back of her neck, nibbling and biting—he's suddenly grateful that she's planning on wearing her hair down—and he's ramming into her faster than he ever thought would be possible.

His hips must be worshipping some sex god from another dimension—and _succeeding_—because he could've sworn he stopped having any control over his legs whatsoever somewhere around when his fingers touched her.

But there they are.

Rolling into Zatanna at a rate of once per second and still holding him upright.

His three main fingers travel down once more, landing on her clit as he keeps pounding into her, and he circles it with sloppy, approximate motions because it's all he can do not to collapse from the sensory overload. She's already so far gone, however, that it only takes a few tugs for her to scream against his neck and leave a trail of pink as her teeth drag down on his skin.

She gulps the air and almost inhales some of his hair by accident, and still he keeps slamming his cock into her, harder than she would have ever thought possible. Though she's lost all individual feeling below her navel and can't identify anything that's happening anymore, she feels as if thrown into a boiling hot pot of pleasure and grinds down on him as it flows through her every cell.

He runs his teeth over her neck and nibbles on her collarbone, gasping for air as his hips make it clear that they don't belong to him anymore, and, when his mouth reaches the point where her shoulder and neck meet, he bites down.

_Hard._

She comes again with a piercing scream that he muffles with the hand that was resting on her hips, the other still working her clit. She whimpers against his palm, feeling the rubber ball of nerves pull tight again as his fingers just keep on circling her, and she swears she has some excess liquid in her eyes when it untangles with a snap once more.

After twitching uncontrollably as sweat pools down in the crevice between her collarbones, she drives him over the edge with one simple flex of her inner muscles, relishing the way he chokes on air and stares at the ceiling with his face frozen in a silent scream.

They stay like that—as if painted—for longer than either will care to admit in the future, but, for now, it's impossible to string even two thoughts together.

What feels like forever later, Zatanna's hands land on her hair, grasping at the rolls she forgot were on her head as he removes himself from inside her, and then she all but collapses to the floor, tensed legs finally giving out.

He stays upright by some miracle, but his pants could be heard from a mile away, he's sure. His member hangs flaccid and exhausted against his trousers and there's a bit of come still leaking from it, which smears onto the black fabric just a little.

Dick glances down, smooths the white liquid onto his fingers, and hopes no one in the audience will have an ultraviolet light.

His tongue darts out to wet his own red and chapped lips—all make-up gone—as he holds a hand out to her, looking at his wristwatch. People gotta be wondering where they are by now.

She links their fingers, grabs onto his lower arm, and pushes herself up, but, since he's not really particularly stronger than her at this moment in time, they both almost fall to the hard floor.

In the end, they decide to stay seated for a few minutes more as they do their best at regaining all motor control.

"So," he says, "ready to get married now?"

"Sure." She swallows, closing her eyes and holding onto the _life_ coursing through her veins. "Right now I'm ready to do just about anything."

* * *

**A/N:** my first Chalant fic and you should know that there's a Chalant week starting on the 28th November that you should maybe consider participating in. Also this is part of my DC Marriage Week series, which includes seven different pairing one-shots as well as a seven-chapter Spitfire fic with the same prompts and they all have the same continuity. Check out my profile for more details.


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